He is a gentle man with an apricot smile, a sensitive soul who scars at the touch.

Even when sober, he drips generous beer and whistles like bagpipes on a misty Scottish moor.

Fish know his real name; the rest of us guess.

Traveling with a German shepherd instead of a compass, he heads out like a gypsy in search of the moon.

Those of us wanderers who meet him along the way have the imprint of his hand burned upon our shoulders, a fitting tattoo for one such as he.

I whisper his name to the dark of the night and imagine he hears me wherever he is.